


Gallirei Weekend 2018

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: ABO, Canon Divergent, Gallirei Weekend 2018, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, side/past Reibert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:11:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: It's been mentioned that there aren't a lot of fics with "lost moments" featuring the Warriors, so that's what this weekend is.  Each chapter is based on something that happened in canon, but is then expanded upon.  It's also ABO, because when I go canon divergent, I go hard.





	1. Competition

Dirt rises in a puff when Reiner hits the ground, and Porco can taste it in his teeth through his grin.

He lifts his foot, his calf aching against the weight of his boot, draws it back, not sure where he should aim—should he go for Reiner’s ribs, a larger target, a softer target, exposed and ready for splintering from a toe protected by steel, or should he aim for Reiner’s face, his stupid, earnest face, and his mouth that constantly spits stupid shit, all his blather about the strength of Marley and the honor of being a warrior?

Porco decides to take his chances and aim for Reiner’s face—he can already imagine the satisfying crunch as Reiner’s teeth crumble under his boot, let’s see you worry and fret through a mouthful of broken stumps—but his moment’s hesitation is a moment too long and Marcel is there between them, shoving Porco backwards, making his kick pass harmlessly through the air.

Porco spits curses, all the delicious, forbidden words he’s learned from the older soldiers around them, words he doesn’t quite understand but all he really needs to know is the connotation, and that’s enough. He doesn’t need to know definitions to know that Reiner is a miserable piece of shit, and that he deserves the nastiest words in his growing vocabulary.

“Omega! Filthy fucking Omega!”

“ _Porco_!” Marcel’s eyes go wide, and he slams an elbow into Porco’s gut, too fast to be dodged at these close quarters, and all the wind goes out of Porco’s lungs, coughed up through the bitter taste of betrayal. “Shut up!”

Porco sucks in another breath, his stomach aching where Marcel hit him, and he’s readying another volley of curses when he catches the look on Marcel’s face. His brother—his brave, brilliant brother, the next Jaw titan, the next great Warrior of Marley—looks scared.

And Marcel _never_ looks scared.

“Sorry, Reiner,” Marcel mutters, his eyes downcast, and Porco starts sputtering—him? Marcel is apologizing to _him_? what is Marcel apologizing for, this was all Reiner’s fault, it’s _always_ all Reiner’s fault—but Marcel is hustling him away, and Porco is taller but Marcel is stronger, and it’s not worth fighting over anymore. As Marcel shoves him around a corner, Porco catches a glimpse of Bertolt offering a hand to Reiner, to pull him up from the dirt, and he sneers—Bertolt is too good for Reiner, too good by half. He should be Marcel’s best friend, after Porco, not Reiner’s!

Marcel lets go of him once they’re out of sight, and Porco shoves him away. Marcel barely even stumbles, used to Porco’s aggression by now, and he watches Porco through heavily-lidded eyes. Porco glowers wordlessly at him, making a big show and production of dusting off and cradling his stomach, where he was elbowed, waiting for Marcel to break the silence like he always does.

“You shouldn’t use words like that. Not where other people can hear them.”

Now _this_ is interesting, and Porco forgets his indignation at having Marcel spare Reiner a beating. He even forgets to keep hugging his belly to make Marcel feel guilty. Not that he can ever stay angry at Marcel for very long anyway; his love for his older brother is too strong, so all consuming that it scares him sometimes. Porco is doing none of this for Marley, none of it for glory or protection or citizenship. Those are all vague, abstract concepts, beyond his comprehension. Marcel is real, a stable, unshakable force, and everything Porco does, he does to stay close to his brother. “What words? Fucking?”

That’s the word the other soldiers use the most, the one with the most variation, and Porco has been hoarding it away for just the right moment.

Marcel’s cheek twitches, and Porco knows he’s trying not to smile. Everything is all right between them again, their little quarrel forgotten, and Porco offers a little half-smile back. “No, but don’t let Mom or Grandma hear you say it.”

“Filthy?” Even Porco has his doubts about that one—their mother uses it sometimes, mostly to describe the state of their ears when he and Marcel come home extra dirty from training.

“No.” Marcel looks around, making sure no one is listening, then bows his head forward. Porco leans in too, thrilled to be getting this secret knowledge from his brother. “ _Omega_.”

Marcel straightens up, and Porco is disappointed—that’s it? There’s no more to this than that? “Why not?”

“You just don’t call people that. Especially boys.”

Porco furrows his brow, scowling in combined frustration and disappointment; Marcel isn’t usually this secretive, this elusive and reticent with answers and information. “I don’t even know what one is.”

He’d admit that to no one else, would show his ignorance to no one but Marcel. Porco knows he can trust Marcel not to laugh at him, not to tease him and make light of his struggles, like when he’d confessed, shamefaced, that words kept moving on the pages of their books and that’s why his reading was so slow. Marcel had helped him then, never breathing a word of Porco’s problem to anyone, and together, they’d found a way to make the words stay where they belong on the page. Even Marcel hadn’t been able to save Porco’s spelling, though.

Marcel proves evasive today, not meeting Porco’s eyes. “It’s something bad. Don’t use it.”

“But _why_?” Porco can hear the whine in his voice, and hates it, but this doesn’t make any sense. Marcel _never_ keeps things from him!

“Because!”

“You sound like Dad!”

“Sometimes that’s the only reason there is!”

Porco glares at his brother, and Marcel glares right back, his dark brows drawn down in imitation of their father, and Porco knows that this tactic won’t work. It usually doesn’t, which is why he tried it first.

So he tries another approach. “If I don’t know what it means, how am I supposed to remember not to use it?” It’s a weak argument—he doesn’t know what fucking is either, but that doesn’t keep him from using the word—but it’s all he’s got, short of going and asking Zeke, and Zeke scares him a little. Even when he’s smiling, there’s ice behind Zeke’s eyes.

Marcel manages to glare for another moment or two, but then his shoulders slump and Porco knows that he’s won. 

“Come on.” Marcel takes Porco by the elbow and leads him deeper into an alley, and Porco thrills at the thought of getting forbidden knowledge, a moment of bonding with his brother, secrets shared and passed down between them.

Once Marcel is sure they’re alone, he crouches down, and Porco does the same, squatting beside him and watching intently, his head bowed low, close to Marcel’s dark one.

Marcel’s first question surprises him. “Did Mom tell you where babies come from?

Porco frowns— _that’s_ not forbidden knowledge, that’s an icky story their mother told him, a story about something he’s sure he’s _never_ going to do. Stick his wiener in a girl? No thanks! “Yes.”

Marcel nods, and Porco catches the flat shine of relief in his eyes; Marcel didn’t want to talk about that anymore than Porco does. “Good. The, uh… the thing you do to get a baby? That’s fucking.”

Porco can feel his eyes go wide in disbelief. “ _That’s_ fucking?”

Another nod from Marcel, and Porco knows he’s not lying to him. “Yes.”

“ _Gross_.”

To Porco’s surprise, Marcel smiles thinly at his outburst. He’d been expecting commiseration, not a smile. “Dad says it’ll sound fun someday.”

“You talked to Dad about it?” This is something else to puzzle over—their mother had explained all this to Porco, their father conspicuously absent. He’d assumed it had been the same for Marcel.

“Yes, but that’s not important.” It seems important to Porco, but Marcel keeps talking, and he holds his tongue, eager for the reveal of further mysteries. “There are… three different kinds of people.”

Porco is shocked—he’s never heard of a third kind. “Something besides Marleyans and Eldians?”

Marcel grimaces. “Don’t you ever pay attention in class? There are _lots_ of other countries, lots of different groups…”

“You said _kinds of people_ , not races!” Porco is indignant. “I paid attention to _those_ lectures!”

His attention might drift on occasion, and he’s been known to look over Marcel’s notes after class, but Porco had wanted to know who he’ll be killing someday, once he has the Armored Titan. Once he’s a Warrior of Marley.

“Okay, okay!” Marcel holds his hands up, and Porco quiets down. “Besides race, besides countries, there are _other_ kinds of people. Other kinds that… that have to do with fucking.”

“Really?” Porco lets his knees down from his crouch, kneeling in the dust, all his attention on Marcel. “What are they?”

Marcel counts them off on his fingers. “There are betas. They’re the most common, and there’s nothing special about them. They’re just regular people.”

“Okay.” Betas sound boring. “What are the others?”

“Alphas.” Two fingers held up now. “They’re bigger. Stronger. When they get mad, they’re really scary. Dad said so.”

More secrets between Marcel and their father, but Porco lets it slide for now. “And what’s the third one?”

Marcel sighs, and reluctantly raises a third finger. “Omegas.”

Porco waits, but Marcel is silent, not elaborating further. “So what’s so bad about them?”

“They’re weak. They need an Alpha so they… so they don’t go crazy.”

“Oh.” Porco is disappointed—this insult isn’t nearly as exciting as he’d imagined. For forbidden knowledge, it leaves something to be desired. “What kind are we?”

“Probably betas.” His solemn knowledge imparted, Marcel stands up, and offers a hand to Porco. “Alphas are too wild to have very many as soldiers, and Omegas are too weak. Dad says that the Marleyans wanted to see our family history before we could go into the Warrior program. They wanted to make sure we didn’t have any Alphas or Omegas in our family. They said it would be a waste of resources to train a warrior that was one of those.”

Porco catches Marcel’s hand and hoists himself to his feet. “We didn’t, right?”

“Nah. I don’t think anyone in the program does.”

~*~

Galliard paces the dock, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets, scanning the horizon for the massive ship Marley had sent to Paradis. It’s been months since Zeke and Pieck set off, finally going back to retrieve their wayward warriors, and although Galliard had fought endless, fruitless battles to be allowed to go too, he’d been sidelined. Forced to stay in Marley and wait, a warrior without a titan, a man without a purpose. He’d argued so hard, harder than anything he’d ever argued for before: what if one of them got hurt? what if they captured one of the Paradis devils, one of the ones that had stolen a titan, and needed to get the titan back? They have the technology to transform him! He could be useful! He could help the mission!

No, they’d said. No, little Porco Galliard, you stay behind, you stay on Marley and _wait_ , the same way you’ve been waiting for _five fucking years_ , while your brother is out there risking his life, all on his own, without anyone who has his back.

If Galliard had gotten the Armored Titan, it wouldn’t have taken five years. If it had been Galliard who had gone to Paradis with Marcel, they would have been back ages ago. They would have found the Founding Titan and the Attack Titan and brought them both back to Marley where they belong, and crushed all the devils under their heels in the process. Galliard hopes the officials of Marley, the higher-ups with their sneering mouths and raised eyebrows and the way they look at his armband like it’s something infectious, have realized their mistake.

They should be looking at _Reiner_ like that. Not at him.

A horn blows behind him, and Galliard jumps at the loud blast. Then he’s instantly scanning the horizon, one hand lifting to shade his eyes, trying to find the returning ship. 

He finds it after a few moments, just a dark smudge on the horizon for now, but certain to get bigger with every passing moment, and his heart leaps into his chest. It’s almost time… Marcel is almost back. Rumors have been circulating, ugly stories Galliard has refused to believe, stories about warriors lost, about devils that can fly, that can soar down out of the sky with flashing claws and rip warriors out of the backs of their titans. It’s all bullshit, as far as Galliard is concerned. There’s no way those ignorant devils could beat their warriors. Not battle-tested warriors like Zeke and Pieck. Not talented, brilliant warriors like Bertolt.

Not Marcel. There’s no way they’d be able to beat Marcel.

Galliard stays on the dock, watching the ship as it grows ever bigger, the wind chapping his cheeks and making his eyes water. It’s just the wind; he’s not the child he was when Marcel first went away, weeping horribly and lost in his own grief. He won’t cry this time. He’ll make Marcel proud of him.

And then he’ll take a titan back from one of the devils, and he and Marcel will be warriors together, the way they were always meant to be.

The ship looms up beside the dock, its enormous anchor falling into the water with a splash, and Galliard dodges the wave it creates. He’s practically dancing now, hardly able to keep his feet still, staring up at the bridge. 

It’s empty. 

That doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself as the gangplank rolls down, connecting the ship to the dock, and he pushes down the urge to charge up the gangplank and burst into the ship. That would be unseemly; Marcel wouldn’t appreciate that. He wasn’t on the bridge because he wants to make an entrance; Marcel has missed Galliard just as much as Galliard has missed him, and he wants to make a production of it. He didn’t want his first glimpse of his brother in years to be a windblown, salty version, and Galliard swipes his hands over his face, making sure there’s nothing on it.

Pieck and Zeke emerge from the gangplank first, Pieck leaning heavily on Zeke’s arm, the way she does when she’s been in her titan too long and has forgotten how to walk on two legs. Galliard starts up the gangplank, reconsiders, then throws caution to the wind and charges up it. Pieck sees him coming and smiles, her face drawn and tired, and steps away from Zeke, opening her arms.

Galliard swoops in before she can fall, wrapping his arms around her in what is, from her end, a hug, and from his end, a tactical assist. His relationship with Pieck is complicated; he’s not as talented as she is, he knows he’s not, but she apparently suffers fools gladly and likes him regardless. They’ve spent a lot of time together over the last five years, have even shared each other’s beds on occasion, and Galliard can admit, in his softer moments, that she’s his best friend.

After Marcel, naturally.

“Hey, Pieck.” He says it softly, muffled by her hair, and Pieck laughs tiredly, reaching up to pat his back with one thin hand.

“Hi, Pokko,” and she’s the only person living who can get away with calling him that.

Beside them, Zeke clears his throat, and Galliard straightens up, letting Pieck lean on his arm, and salutes Zeke with the other one.

“War Chief.”

Zeke nods, and even _he_ looks exhausted, bags under his eyes and the first hints of grey starting to thread through his blond hair. “Galliard.” Without another word, he starts down the gangplank, his shoulders slumped forward, moving like an old man, and Galliard watches him go, his mouth hanging open.

What _happened_ over there?

Pieck squeezes his arm, getting Galliard’s attention. “Gali…”

Galliard starts; she never calls him that, especially not in public. It’s a name to be whispered between the sheets, a name for the darkness, a name meant to be muffled in pillows, and for the first time, fear lances through him. “What happened, Pieck?”

Her eyes are huge and endless, their depths almost more than he can bear. “Gali, we… we didn’t all make it back.”

“Marcel.” The name escapes him before he can call it back, hisses out in a strangled little yelp, and Galliard can feel the muscles of his thighs turning to water. “Marcel. Where is he?”

Pieck ducks her head, her hair hanging in her face, creating a curtain between them, and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Galliard shakes his head in response, his throat closing in fear, his heart pounding in his chest. “No, that’s… no. Pieck, _no_.”

She meets his eyes then, and hers are swimming with tears, and Galliard knows she wouldn’t lie to him about this. He wouldn’t believe this from anyone except Pieck, and it’s only knowing that she’d fall if he collapsed that keeps him on his feet.

“No. No, no, no…” The word is caught in his throat, jammed there, wedged tight, and Galliard doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say anything else, ever again. The entire world is made of no; the entire world is collapsing around him. He _waited_. He wasn’t chosen, and he _waited_ , and now they’re telling him that Marcel is gone, that he didn’t make it back, and it’s all Galliard’s fault. If he had been there, if he’d been beside Marcel, he would have made it. The world wouldn’t be falling apart because Marcel would still be in it.

Pieck is hugging him again, saying something; Galliard can see her lips moving but no words break through them, nothing to counteract the overwhelming chorus of denial ringing in his ears. Strangely, his eyes are completely dry; it’s as though his tear ducts have dried up, as though they can’t believe what he’s been told any more than the rest of him can.

Galliard shakes his head, shakes his head like that can make it not true, and when he does, he catches a scent. His beta senses are blunted, not nearly as capable as an Alpha’s or an Omega’s, but the scent is strong enough that it breaks through his limitations, breaks through his grief. Galliard lifts his head, breathing in through his nose, and there it is again: a scent he can only describe as agony, like burning and arm bands and melting metal and vinegar and rot and blood splashed across pristine white walls. It smells like loss, like incomprehensible loss, and Galliard realizes why he can pick it up so clearly: it smells the way his chest feels, the way the rest of his life will be without Marcel.

Pieck tries to gently steer him away, but Galliard refuses to move. He starts towards the scent, dragging Pieck with him, and as he gets deeper into the bowels of the ship, the scent gets stronger. It floods his mind, driving him ever deeper, and in some distant way, Galliard realizes this must be what it’s like everyday for Alphas and Omegas. How can they survive, when the world is so sharp, so brutally clear, for them? 

By the time they’re at the sick bay, a low, endless keening has joined the scent, a sound like the wind howling through empty barracks, and Galliard is nearly out of his mind. How did they survive the trip back to Marley? How did _this_ not drive them insane? 

He’s almost grateful; it’s a distraction, a mystery that needs to be solved before he can begin the horrible work of living in a world where Marcel is dead.

Galliard skids to a halt in front of a door in the sickbay, a private room, and Pieck bumps into him from behind. The scent is overpowering here, punctuated by the low moaning, and Galliard lays a hand on the doorknob.

“Gali, don’t…”

Pieck tries to tell him otherwise, but Galliard is past the point of listening. He grips the doorknob, turns it, and lets himself in.

The room is dimly lit, full of creeping shadows, curtains drawn to block out the midday sun. It’s filled with the scent, the scent of unbearable, soul-rending grief, a scent Galliard understands, and for the first time, he feels tears prick the corners of his eyes.

Reiner is laying on the bed in the room, the stumps of his limbs steaming, the skin on his face translucent and barely there. His eyes are closed, his eyelids solid and twitching, his mouth open in a silent scream. He thrashes in the bed, throwing his stumps out at enemies that aren’t there, and Galliard sees it.

He sees the scars on Reiner’s neck, the bites left behind under his jaw, close to his scent glands, and he knows.

“You Omega…” The tears come then, full and unbidden, and Galliard’s legs go out on him. He collapses onto the floor, Pieck coming down beside him, and he covers his face with his hands as he’s wracked with sobs. “You filthy fucking Omega…”


	2. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few years further in the future, and Reiner has a problem.

They’re pinned down, and it’s driving Galliard insane.

They’ve been in tight spots before, in this war against the Middle Alliances, but never quite this tight, and never for so long. Until they get air support, there’s not much they can do except hunker down and wait it out, conserving their supplies and trying to keep their strength up.

Pieck has retreated to her quarters with some books her Panzer unit found for her; as the only female warrior, she is afforded a certain amount of privacy the rest of them lack. Zeke has gone to his own room to brood—as War Chief, he gets his own room as well, is practically treated like a real Marleyan, and never mind that no one would want to share with him anyway. Reiner is quiet and pensive in the room he shares with Galliard, and Galliard tries to bait him, tries to goad him into a fight, but Reiner isn’t buying it.

Galliard wishes he _would_ rise to his taunts, would throw a punch or a bitter word or _something_. Anything to distract him, to take his mind off the fact that there’s nothing to do, that their quarters are cramped, and all he can do all day long is pace the hallways, trying to exhaust himself.

When he’s exhausted, he doesn’t dream.

When they’re not pinned down and trapped and watching their supplies dwindle, Galliard does everything in his power to wear himself out every day. He spends time in his titan whenever he can, running and leaping and clawing, biting anything that needs to be bitten and some things that don’t, exercising until he’s trembling and dripping with sweat, his knees weak and his arms limp and useless. When he collapses into bed at night, wrung out and sore all over, aching to steam it all away but not allowing himself to, he can sleep without dreams. He can sleep without seeing through _her_ eyes, without seeing all the devils on the island, without seeing _Reiner_ all night. He can sleep without watching Reiner break up fights, help everyone out, laugh and joke and be happier than he ever was back in Marley; he can sleep without catching glimpses of Reiner and Bertolt making eyes at each other, then returning one day with bite marks on their necks, reeking of each other’s scent, so strong that it made _her_ pretend to collapse in horror. Every time, every time he sleeps without working himself to exhaustion first, he sees through her eyes all night, and it’s always her. It’s never Marcel. He’s buried somewhere, hidden under her memories, and Galliard doesn’t know how to draw him forth. 

For the last several days, Galliard’s nights and days have been filled with Reiner, and he’s taking to doing push-ups in the hallway, sit-ups, working on his vertical leap, _anything_ to push himself past the brink of her dreams.

There’s also the cloying reek in their room, one that’s growing steadily stronger. Galliard is used to a certain level of manly muskiness—he contributes to that himself, has been around it in barracks for as long as he can remember—but this is different. It’s heavier, sweeter, and he’s certain it’s coming from Reiner.

It’s well-known that Reiner is an Omega; at some point, during their years with the devils, he’d manifested, had started showing Omega traits. Around the same time, Bertolt had manifested as an Alpha, and then Reiner had come back alone, the only evidence that Bertolt ever existed the scars on Reiner’s neck, scars he’s been ordered to heal, the only orders he’s refused since coming back. He willingly obeys the orders to take the medications to suppress his heats, to render him neuter and inoffensive, to blunt his scent and smother his urges. There’d been talking of taking his titan away, of giving his armor to someone else, but there had been no cadets ready to accept the burden, and Galliard had wanted the Jaw. And so Reiner still lives, still draws breath and cries out in the middle of the night, fills their quarters with his flowery Omega reek, assaults Galliard even in his dreams.

Sometimes, it feels like he’s haunted by Reiner Braun.

Galliard is lingering up near their encampments, watching the enemy lines with the kind of casual disdain only a warrior can muster, when Pieck finds him.

“Gali.” Ever since she came back from the island, she calls him Gali, and while Galliard wishes she would stop, he knows she won’t. “We need you.”

“Who does?” He glances down when Pieck takes his arm, and curls his lip as her scent fills his nostrils. “ _Shit_ , what’ve you been bathing in? You smell _awful_.”

_Like a whorehouse_ , one of the other soldiers might say, but Galliard would never, ever say that to Pieck. She wouldn’t hit him; the look of hurt and betrayal he knows she’d have in her eyes would be worse. She suffers too, in her own way; she’s beautiful, and even the Marleyans notices, and they think they can get fresh with her, even though she’s a warrior. Her Panzer squad knows this too, and keeps watch on her; one of them is lingering several feet away, watching Galliard with hooded eyes.

Galliard flips him off. Like he’d _ever_ hurt Pieck.

Pieck notices, and smiles faintly, but then clasps Galliard’s arm tighter and starts leading him back towards the warriors’ quarters. “Zeke wants to see you.”

Galliard straightens up a little; of all of them, he’s the one Zeke calls on the least, a fact he’s keenly aware of, and if Zeke wants to see him… maybe Zeke is finally recognizing his value, his contributions to the team, how he’s always done his duty and been a good warrior, even before he had his titan. “Did he say what he wanted?”

Pieck doesn’t answer right away, but that might be because they’re going down a few stairs, and she’s concentrating. “He’ll tell you himself.”

“Come on, Pieck.” Galliard flashes her one of his quick, rare smiles. “I know he told you.”

Pieck shakes her head and doesn’t say anything else until they’re at the door to Zeke’s quarters. She raps on it, then leads them both in when Zeke clears his throat inside and bids them enter.

Pieck makes a beeline for the couch once they’re inside, and Galliard stands tall, bringing his arm up in a salute. “War Chief.”

“Galliard.” Zeke has been smoking in here, the room thick with blue fog, and Galliard has to stifle a cough. Even during a siege, Zeke still manages to find cigarettes. “At ease.” Zeke waves one hand towards a chair. “Sit down.”

This is a rare amount of familiarity, and Galliard walks on stiff legs to settle onto the chair. “What can I do for you, War Chief?”

Zeke takes his time answering, lighting another cigarette and blowing smoke rings up at the ceiling. “We have a situation.”

“Sir?” Galliard glances at Pieck, but she’s no help, curled on the couch with her arms crossed, her head cradled between them. 

“How long have we been pinned down, Galliard?”

“Three weeks, sir. Twenty… twenty four days.” It might be a day or two more or less than that, but Galliard is pretty sure that’s the right number. He’d been keeping scrupulous track at first, but now the days are starting to bleed together.

“Yes. And we only have supplies for?”

“Three weeks again, sir. More with rationing.” They’re all hungry these days, their belts growing tighter, but as Eldians, the warriors are better prepared to deal with such. Galliard’s hunger isn’t enough to keep him from his daily exercise. Not yet.

“Yes.” Zeke studies him for a few moments, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “Vice Commander Braun only had enough medication for two weeks when we were trapped.”

Galliard frowns. “Medication, sir?”

Zeke just keeps staring at him, like he’s the stupidest motherfucker to ever wear the Eldian armband, and Galliard almost blurts out that Reiner has always been perfectly, disgustingly healthy in all the time they’ve shared quarters. But then it dawns on him, and Galliard can feel his cheeks burn red.

“Oh.” Omega repression medication. Reiner only had a two weeks supply on him when they got pinned down. They’ve now been trapped for over three.

Zeke nods, his mouth drawn tight and grim. “He reduced his dosage, stretched it out as long as he could, but he ran out two days ago.”

Two days ago was when their quarters started to really stink, and Galliard silently curses himself for a fool, for not noticing. “So he’s…”

“Yes.” Zeke nods. “It happened this afternoon.”

“Shit.” The word slips out before he can call it back, and Galliard starts to apologize but then Zeke nods again.

“Yes. Shit.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Zeke puffing on his cigarette and surrounding them with clouds of smoke.

Galliard fidgets until he can’t bear the silence any longer. “So… what do we do?”

The thought of asking Marley for help is unthinkable. Reiner might be a piece of shit, the filthiest of Omegas, but he’s a warrior, an Eldian, and as much as he might not like it, Galliard is now part and parcel to this. 

Zeke exhales, the sound a soft sigh. “He can’t be left alone.”

Galliard nods. He’s older now, he understands more about how Alphas and Omegas work. An Omega in heat can’t be left alone; it’s dangerous, even deadly, for them to ride out a heat without a partner. Once again, Reiner is being fucking selfish and demanding someone else’s time and energies. “Have you found a, uh… a suitor, sir?”

Zeke levels a flat, almost amused look at him, and Galliard can feel all the blood drain out of his face. He swallows around the knot in his throat, suddenly so huge it feels like it will choke him. “Sir?”

“I can’t do it,” Pieck says quietly from her couch. Galliard had almost forgotten she was there. “Reiner doesn’t like women.”

“He’s an Omega in heat!” Galliard snaps, his voice cracking through the air, reverberating off the corners of the room. “He’s not going to be picky!”

“He’s had a mate.” Zeke says it quietly, matter-of-factly, and where Galliard’s cheeks were bleached white a moment ago, now they’re burning. “Omegas don’t change from their preferences.”

“So why don’t you do it?!”

The look Zeke levels at him is enough to make Galliard’s soul shrivel and die a little. “In the event of an attack, which two titans would you want at Marley’s disposal? The Cart and the Beast, or the Cart and the Jaw?”

“ _Fuck_.” It’s logical, it’s perfectly logical, and Galliard hates every moment of it. He and Pieck work very well together in the field, but both their titans are small; deadly at short distances, but not terribly effective long-range. To have any real chance in an attack, they need either the Beast or the Armored, and Galliard drags his hands down his face.

He’s always been a good soldier. He’s always done what was asked of him, to the best of his abilities. He’s always followed orders, done the dirty work no one else wanted to do, waited patiently for his titan, got sidelined for five years and is still struggling to catch up. For all his efforts, he’s always been an afterthought, the Galliard brother that never quite measured up. And now he’s being called on again—come fix our problem, Galliard, come clean up our mess—and he knows he can’t refuse, but every fiber of his being wants to.  
This wouldn’t be happening if Marcel were still alive.

Galliard drops his hands to his knees, takes a deep breath, and lifts his eyes to look at Zeke. “I’ll do it.”

Zeke nods, a glimmer of relief flashing across his eyes, there and then gone. “You remember your training?”

“Yes.” They’d all been taught what to do for Omegas and Alphas when they’re in heat, an extremely uncomfortable and horrible afternoon that had left everyone cringing and praying to be betas. It’s an irony Galliard refuses to appreciate that he grew up to be one. “Do we have any of those knot things around?”

Wordlessly, Zeke hands him a cloth sack, and Galliard takes it as he rises to his feet.

“Thank you, Gali,” Pieck says quietly as he leaves, and Galliard flips a little wave over his shoulder as he slams the door. He’s not mad at Pieck, not even really mad at Zeke; the whole situation is just bullshit, another kick in the teeth for him, another piece of evidence that the Marleyans made the wrong choice.

The Armored Titan shouldn’t get taken down by a _heat_.

Galliard finds his way to their quarters by instinct, not watching where he’s going or paying any attention, the bag he’s carrying bumping against his thigh, its weight inconsequential, its weight dragging him down. The halls of their little warren are deserted, as if everyone else has realized what’s about to happen and taken off, and Galliard realizes as he gets closer to their room that Reiner’s stink is everywhere, permeating every surface, filling the halls with a silent, billowing cloud. No wonder the other dynamics in the area have left; even with his beta senses, the scent is so powerful Galliard almost chokes on it. 

It’s… it’s not a _bad_ scent, exactly. It doesn’t smell the way Reiner did when they brought him back from Paradis, when he’d smelled of horror and grief and vast, limitless loneliness. This one is different, more floral, an invitation, but with an astringent, desperate underlying need. Galliard has never been around an Omega in heat before—they’re kept out of the military, too much of a liability no matter how talented they are—and now the scent fills his sinuses, invades his throat.

He’s been dealing with Reiner’s stink for four years now, and now it’s giving him an erection. Galliard groans in disgust and adjusts himself through his pants.

He pauses in front of the door, lifting the bag Zeke had given him and weighing its contents against his palm. He could just leave. He could back out, go sleep above ground, rely on his healing powers to keep him safe, and leave Reiner to his fate. If he hadn’t gotten Bertolt killed—if he hadn’t gotten Marcel killed—Reiner wouldn’t be in this situation.

But Galliard has always been a good soldier, has always done his duty, and he sighs as he opens the door and lets himself in.

The air is thick and fetid in the room, hanging heavy and cloying, and Galliard coughs as he closes the door behind him. Reiner is curled on his bed, a misshapen lump under the blankets, but he stirs when he hears the door. “Galliard?”

“Yeah.” The damn scent is overpowering, making Galliard woozy, and he strides across the room to his own bed, plopping down on it and putting his head between his head. “ _Fuck_ , you stink.”

Reiner makes a soft, sad sound, and curls tighter around himself. “I know.” He’s silent for a moment, then uncurls enough to look over his shoulder, his pale gold eyes bright in the gloom. “You should probably find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

“I wish I could.” Even as he says it, Galliard feels his cock rise to full attention, tight and straining against the crotch of his pants, and he reaches down to adjust it again with a sigh.

“Galliard.” Reiner’s voice has an awful, dreadful patience to it, one that sets Galliard’s teeth on edge. “You don’t want to be here right now.”

“No shit, I don’t.” Galliard looks directly at Reiner then, pointedly spreading his legs so his erection is visible through his pants. “I’m supposed to help you with… this.”

Reiner’s eyes shift downward, taking in Galliard’s arousal, and for a moment, it almost seems like he’s considering it. Then he turns back around and draws the blankets tighter around himself. “I don’t want you to.”

“You think _I_ want to?” The idea that Reiner could think that makes Galliard’s mouth taste like sour disappointment, and he spits into the corner of the room. “Zeke _told_ me to.”

The noise Reiner makes then is something Galliard has never heard before, a note of mourning and indescribable loneliness that almost, _almost_ makes him feel sorry for Reiner. “He ordered it?”

“Yeah.” They might as well be honest with each other, and Galliard leans back against the wall behind his bunk, his arms crossed over his chest. “Told me to take care of it in case there was an attack. He said that Pieck and I wouldn’t be able to defend the base on our own.”

And he’d been right, dammit, which hurts the worst of all. Marcel would have been able to defend the base all on his own.

That makes Reiner make a sound that’s almost a sad little chuckle. “He just didn’t want to do it himself.”

“Can you blame him?” Galliard realizes how cruel that is as it leaves his lips, but then it’s out and between them, too big and bold to take back.

Reiner is silent for a moment, and Galliard suddenly knows, without even asking, that he’s thinking about Bertolt. It makes him wonder how often Reiner thinks about him, if he calls Bertolt’s image to his mind every morning when he first wakes up, going over his features one by one, so he doesn’t forget him. He wonders if Reiner still remembers Bertolt’s smile, his laugh, the sound of his voice. He wonders if he replays their last hug in his mind, feeling the weight and strength of Bertolt’s arms around him, the press of their bodies together, hears Bertolt whisper “I’ll be back, Porco, I promise I’ll come back, I’ll…”

Galliard shakes his head. The stink in the room must be making him sick.

In the other bed, Reiner is slowly rolling over, laying flat on his back and watching Galliard. The blankets get twisted as he moves, exposing his chest and shoulders, and almost against his will, Galliard finds his eyes roaming. Reiner has always been big—even when they were children, he was broader and heavier than the rest of them—but when he first came back from Paradis, it had been shocking how he’d grown. If he hadn’t reeked the way he had, hadn’t been emotionally eviscerated the way he had, Galliard would have thought he’d come back an Alpha. But no, he’s just an exceptionally huge Omega, almost freakishly big, and even with all the weight he’s lost since coming back, Reiner still cuts an impressive figure. He carries his muscles in his chest and shoulders, in his abdomen, cutting a swath through the air when he walks. A part of Galliard wishes he could build muscle on his chest and in his arms like that, rather than packing all his muscles in his lower half, in his legs and hips. 

Either way, there’s something about Reiner’s chest now, broad and slowly raising and lowering with each breath, covered in a light, downy bed of hair, beaded with sweat in a few spots, that’s innately appealing. Galliard is no virgin, but everyone he’s been with before has been from the Liberio ghetto, a scrawny, slightly underfed waif, hungry for the attention of one of Marley’s warriors in the same way that they were hungry for bread. Galliard knows he could have been married three or four times by now, but he can’t. He can’t marry someone who never knew Marcel, who has always lived in a world where Marcel is unknown.

Galliard realizes he’s staring, and glances away, his cheeks flushing. When he looks back, Reiner is watching him, and there’s a certain resigned acceptance on his face. Wordlessly, he lifts his blankets, exposing more of his chest, more of that pale hair, running in a line between his abdominal muscles, and Galliard stands up and goes to him.

Galliard stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at Reiner. He realizes he’s left the bag from Zeke behind, that it’s still sitting on the other bed, but the scent is even stronger over here, filling his mind, drugging his senses, and he can only stand and look down at Reiner. Reiner meets his eyes and, when he knows Galliard is watching, reaches up and touches his own neck, brushing his fingertips over the scars he refuses to heal.

“Not these. Don’t bite these.”

“I’m not… I’m not trying to romance you here.” As much bad blood as there is between them, Galliard wouldn’t dream of trying to cover Bertolt’s bite marks. It’s unthinkable, a taboo in every sense of the word. He knows loss too well; he would never try to take all that remains of Bertolt from Reiner, any more than he would steam away the scar on his palm, left there as a child when Marcel had hit him too hard with a stick imagined to be a sword.

Galliard swallows and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “What… what do you need me to do?”

Reiner watches him for a few moments before answering, and there’s simple, exquisite dignity written in every line of his face. Then he carefully folds his blanket down, revealing his naked form underneath it, and rolls onto his stomach.

Galliard almost tears a button off his shirt at the sight; Reiner is a lot curvier through the hips than he’d have thought, his ass plump and inviting, almost feminine and yet somehow still very masculine at the same time. When Reiner gathers his knees underneath himself and sticks his ass in the air, Galliard _does_ rip off a button, sending it skittering to a corner of the room; the scent is the strongest it’s been yet, almost tangible, and he can see lines of slick running down Reiner’s thighs, fluids already leaking from him.

Reiner pillows his face into one arm, muffling his voice, but Galliard would swear he hears a certain wry amusement in it all the same. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

It’s a pretty direct offer, and Galliard sheds his pants, kicking off his boots, before climbing on the bed and positioning himself behind Reiner. From his new angle, he can see Reiner’s hole, pink and inviting like a girl’s, glistening wetly in the low light, and he clasps Reiner’s cheeks with both hands, spreading them open and wide. Reiner groans softly and reaches one hand back, scrabbling alongside Galliard’s to hold himself further open, and Galliard lets go, his hand falling to the base of his own cock, propping it up and out.

Normally he’d be worried about lubrication, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem here. Everything he’s ever heard about Omegas, from the other soldiers who all claim to have them all over the world, is that they’re juicy as hell and an easy entrance, and Reiner doesn’t look like an exception to that rule.

Underneath him, Reiner breathes out, almost a sigh, and pulls his cheek further open. “Please…”

Reiner has never begged Galliard for anything before, and it’s both shocking and weirdly intimate to hear him do it now. Galliard could deny him; he could stay back here, taunting and teasing, and do nothing until Reiner begs more, until he’s pleading for a release that only Galliard can give him. 

But Galliard knows that wouldn’t be satisfying, not really; he’d enjoy it in the moment, but then later he’d realize that Reiner had no choice in the matter, that he was being driven by urges and instincts Galliard can’t understand, and that would cheapen it. It would make it tawdry and meaningless, and Galliard sighs in echo as he lines himself up with Reiner’s entrance.

“Yeah, yeah…” He shivers when the head of his cock touches Reiner; his skin is heated, almost feverish, and Galliard half-expects him to start steaming. He brushes his cock up and down against Reiner’s entrance a few times, gathering fluids on it, and then unceremoniously shoves his way inside.

It’s different with an Omega. That much is glaringly obvious from the first thrust. Galliard comes embarrassingly close to nutting just from the initial sensation, and he sucks in a great, surprised breath, both of his hands falling to Reiner’s hips and clinging for dear life. Reiner _grips_ him in a way he’s never been gripped before, tight and demanding, muscles Galliard has never felt with any of his other partners grabbing at him, squeezing and pressing in all the right places. He manages to not blow his load, but has to curl in on himself, over Reiner’s back, tightening all the muscles of his abdomen, fighting against the extreme embarrassment of losing it with the first thrust.

Underneath him, Reiner chuckles quietly, dropping his hand from his ass and bracing both of them on the bed.

“What’re you laughing about?” Galliard straightens up, readjusts his grip on Reiner’s hips, and tries a shallow, tentative slide back. Reiner _better not_ be laughing at him! Here he is, doing Reiner-fucking-Braun a fucking _favor_ , and he’s laughing!

“Nothing.” Reiner snickers again, a little more watery this time, and hides his face in the pillow. “Go ahead.”

“Was planning on it!” This guy. This fucking guy, and Galliard grits his teeth, the old familiar red building in the corners of his vision. Everything about him, everything Reiner is, everything he represents… Galliard pulls his hips back, his cock sliding almost all the way out, before slamming it back in as hard as he can. Reiner rocks underneath him, his laughter turning into a gasp, and Galliard can see his hands tightening on the sheets.

Good. _Good_. Galliard grins, the one that shows all his teeth and that Marcel used to tease him about, and lets the red take over.

It’s easy, once he gives in to his anger. It’s easy to simply snap his hips back and forth, drive into Reiner’s heat, squeeze his hips so tightly that bruises bloom under Galliard’s hands and then steam away. The sensations are good, edging Galliard rapidly towards the brink; the satisfaction of having Reiner prone and helpless underneath him is better. The Omega scent clogs Galliard’s mind, fills it, surrounds them both, and as he teeters on the brink of explosive orgasm, Galliard realizes he’s punctuating every thrust with a short, muttered phrase.

“Should have been you… should have been _me_ … you left him behind… you got him killed… all your fault… all _my_ fault…”

Beneath him, Reiner shudders, his face still hidden in his arms, and Galliard is certain he’s crying now, openly weeping, and that would normally be extremely satisfying, but for the tears running down his own face, pattering onto the small of Reiner’s back.

When Galliard comes, it’s explosive, an orgasm so deep and all-encompassing that it comes from his very marrow, the very core of his being. Reiner shakes underneath him, voicing a long, low cry, and his muscles clamp down on Galliard, trapping them together, the famous Omega lock. It’s something that’s oft discussed among betas and Alphas, betas with a sense of wonder and Alphas with one of smug superiority, confident in their knots and the relief they bring. Galliard has no knot to lock them together, but Reiner’s grip is strong enough that, when he slowly collapses down onto the bed, Galliard is taken with him, his dick trapped, too afraid to try and pull out.

All the small muscles in Reiner’s back are trembling, with exertion, with exhaustion, and Galliard reluctantly lies down on top of him. He’s heard about this too, how Omegas need someone to lay with them, to keep them feeling safe when they’re in heat, and Galliard is suddenly struck with an image so powerful, it burns itself onto the back of his retinas: Reiner and Bertolt, together just like this, and Bertolt curling himself around Reiner, holding him, cradling him, making a protective shell with his body and enfolding Reiner within it.

Galliard can’t do that. Reiner is taller than he is, and wider; Galliard’s feet dangle between Reiner’s shins, his arms would have to reach out to embrace him. He’s always been a poor substitute, a second-tier warrior and a second-tier brother, and Galliard wipes a hand across his face, clearing away any evidence of his own grief.

Reiner doesn’t seem to want Galliard’s embraces anyway; he sighs underneath him, his face still hidden, and Galliard slowly rides up and down on his breathing, feeling his heart rate slow down, feeling Reiner’s slow down in unison. The stink dies back a bit, replaced by something less desperate, less needy, and what they’ve just done smacks Galliard right between the eyes.

Fuck his life, his dick is trapped in Reiner Braun.

Reiner shifts, turning his head to the side and resting it on his arm, his eye half-open and unfocused. Galliard lifts up a little on his forearms, lest Reiner think he was trying to kiss him or anything equally foolish.

“Once isn’t going to be enough.” Reiner’s voice is apologetic, and Galliard suddenly wants to punch him in the ribs. How dare Reiner make him feel _sorry_ for him, with his stupid humility and resignation? 

“I know.” Zeke’s bag has a dildo in it, one with a proper knot carved into the base, and Galliard knows he’ll have to resort to using it tonight. Galliard scoffs a little, projecting confidence he doesn’t really feel. “I can keep up with you, though.”

That makes Reiner smile, a sad, secretive smile, and the urge to punch him grows. “I know. You always could.”

“Damn straight I could. I _can_.” More bluster, bluster that rings false, echoing hollowly around the room. Galliard knows it, and he’s sure Reiner knows it too.

Reiner opens his eyes all the way and turns his head, looking up at Galliard as best he can from his prone position. “He was talking about you.”

“What?” Fear lances through Galliard’s heart; it’s something he desperately wants to know; it’s something he’s been running from for years.

“Before it happened. Marcel was talking about you.” Reiner closes his eyes and lays back down, resting his head in his arms.

“What…” Galliard licks his lips, swallows around his dry throat. “What did he say?”

He doesn’t expect an answer; he’s not sure he’s ready for an answer.

“He was talking about how much he loved you.”

It’s the answer he’d prayed for; it’s the answer he can’t take. Galliard turns his head, bringing one hand up to roughly rub at his eyes, trying to stop the tears. He can’t; they well up, an absolute force of nature, a wellspring of grief he’s been trying to ignore for years. “Goddammit…”

Reiner sighs, and turns his head into his arms, his shoulders starting to quake with his own tears again. “Bertolt… he screamed for me. Begged for me to come save him.”

“Stop it… just stop it…” 

But Reiner has no more words left, and he dissolves into grief alongside Galliard, both of them crying silently, locked in an intimate embrace and yet a thousand miles apart, trapped by their own loss.

This guy. Reiner fucking Braun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun story: my original plan was for this to be a lot more comedic. There was going to be a part with Galliard getting his fingers stuck in Reiner's ass from trying to simulate a knot, and then being really pissed about it, yelling a lot... you know, fun stuff. But then I got to that part of the story and it was weirdly inappropriate, and I decided to lean hard into the tragedy.
> 
> So, uh... you're welcome?


	3. Warm Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner's POV on this whole mess, and a journey back to Paradis.

Healing is hot.

Every time he’s torn apart on the battlefield, an event that happens with depressing regularity these days, Reiner is taken back to his barracks, cleaned off, and dropped in his bed to steam away his injuries. He never remembers that part—for him, it’s always the smoke and blood and explosions of the battlefield, and then darkness. The dark and the heat and the nothing, and he wishes he could stay in the dark, where it’s quiet and he’s left alone.

That never happens. He’s always dragged back through layers of dreams; the same ones, over and over, and knowing they’re coming does nothing to lessen their horror. Captain Levi, dropping down on him from the sky, a silver blade slicing into the side of his neck; Bertolt, desperate and worried, pleading with him to turn over to protect himself, and he’s so, so tired, but he has to do it because he knows what’s coming, he knows what Bertolt has to do; Bertolt’s hand on his chest, over his heart, a caress even in the midst of battle, and Reiner wants to lift his own hand and grab Bertolt’s wrist, get him to stay, get him to run away with him, but Bertolt never does; the Colossal titan, crumbling and collapsing, its neck an eruption of steam; Hange, her blade at his throat, pressing deeper until Reiner feels like he’s drowning in his own blood; and then, last and always the worst, Bertolt’s screams, his begging for his life, and Reiner lying helpless atop the wall, forced to listen to Bertolt dying again and again and never able to do anything about it.

He’s garnered renown for his bravery in the battlefield, for his courage and willingness to throw himself in front of all obstacles. What no one knows is that every time he leaps in front of a barrage, every time he protects Zeke, protects Pieck, protects Galliard, he’s praying that this will be the time. That this time, the barrage will slice him apart and he’ll sink into the darkness, below the dreams, and be no more.

He’s never so lucky. Always the heat, the darkness, and the dreams.

And then he’ll wake up, and Galliard will be there with him.

He’s always there, sitting somewhere close to Reiner, waiting for him to wake up. Reiner assumes that Zeke has ordered him to stay, to keep watch, and Galliard does it reluctantly, following an order he doesn’t wish to obey. Reiner can’t blame him; they’ve never spoken of Reiner’s heat, of the night they spent together, and Reiner assumes that Galliard simply wishes to forget.

Reiner wishes _he_ could forget.

He never thought he’d be with anyone else, not after Bertolt’s death. It had been worse than a friend dying, worse than losing anyone else could ever be; it had felt like a part of his own soul had died that day, screaming and in pain alongside Bertolt, ripping out of his chest and ascending along with Bertolt’s dying breath. Pieck told him, much later, that she’d been afraid they were going to lose him that day; that he had stopped healing the moment Bertolt had stopped screaming, that his steam had been paltry little wisps, that as they’d carried him back to the ship, Reiner had been barely conscious, only moaning and bleeding and stinking.

Reiner doesn’t remember any of that. All he remembers is the pain, the sheer agony of his loss, his grief, and how he’d wished he could die. He’d wished that Jean had kept his mouth shut, that he’d let Hange kill him. He’d wished he’d blurted out what he’s always known, what he’d been able to see even with his eyes bound shut: that Jean had been rubbing his neck when he’d spoken to Hange, his hand rasping over faint, silvery lines that were all that was left of Marco. If Jean had known what had really happened that day, he would have killed Reiner himself, Hange or no Hange, and then he would be free. He’d be free to go to wherever Bertolt is, whatever afterlife there is for sinners and monsters like them, and if there’s nothing at all, then that’s okay too. It would be release from the pain, and the nightmares.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, tied in a messy, confusing knot, is Porco goddamn Galliard.

There can never be a replacement for Bertolt, just like there can never be a replacement for Marcel. The thought is monstrous, unbearable, not even worth considering. Anyone who would even suggest such a thing would find two very, very angry Warriors of Marley on their hands, working together with the kind of cooperation they can only find on the battlefield, never outside of it.

But, for a few hours there, it had seemed like maybe, just maybe, there could have been comfort in shared grief. Reiner hasn’t forgotten Galliard’s tears raining down on his back, or the words he’d spoken as he’d thrust into him, words that could have been for Reiner or could have been for Galliard himself. They’re not so different, the two of them, and when Reiner had woken up the next morning, shaky and exhausted but no longer in heat, he’d reached out for Galliard.

His hands had only found empty sheets.

Later that same day, once he’d eaten and gotten himself presentable again, Reiner had sought Galliard out, trailing him all around the barracks until he’d managed to corner him. Galliard had cut him off before Reiner could really say anything, slamming one hand against his chest and muttering one sentence before shoving past him and storming away.

“Take your fucking pills.”

Air support had arrived two days later. They’d broken the siege, and moved on to other battles, other wars for Marley, and Reiner has always, always taken his fucking pills since then. He keeps a full two-month supply on him at all times, more if he knows they’re going to be in the field for an extended period, and there have been no more heats.

There has been only the battlefield, and bleeding, and getting torn apart, and feeling like he’s dying, and never dying, always rising back up through the darkness and reluctantly rejoining the world of the living.

Except.

Except there’s one dream that keeps coming back, one that keeps rising past the others, that Reiner can’t explain. Everything else is a memory, something that happened, but this one is different. It’s always the last one, the one Reiner dreads, because it means he’s still alive, means he’s going to wake up.

It’s not even anything visual, but rather a sensation, a feeling: someone warm lying beside him, next to him, an arm around him and a head on his shoulder. It’s not Bertolt—the person is too small to be Bertolt, and Bertolt would wake him up, would want to welcome Reiner into whatever comes after, and this person never does. They simply lie beside him, close to him, and wait for him to wake up. Reiner knows the sound of their breathing, the heat of their skin, the weight of their arm, the soft sensation of their breath on his chest and shoulder, but he’s never seen their face, never heard their voice. He doesn’t even know if they’re real. Perhaps they’re just another of his ghosts, another burden for him to carry for the rest of his abbreviated, miserable life.

They’re always gone when he wakes up, and it’s just Galliard, sitting somewhere in the room, waiting for Reiner to regain consciousness so he can leave.

But then there’s the day of the big announcement, the festival, and Eren shows up and all Reiner’s ghosts come screaming back out at him, overwhelming him and driving him deep into himself, so deep that he almost doesn’t hear Gabi and Falco and their cries for help. But he does, and forces himself up one more time, his titan forming without armor, without defenses, and for once, things go the way Reiner intends; he knows that Eren will be paying more attention to hitting him than he will to the Jaw titan in his hand, and when Eren’s fist collides with Reiner’s face, ripping the entire lower half of it away, Reiner feels his fingers slide into the Jaw’s hair, and at the last split second, he’s able to clench his hand down and rip Galliard away.

This time, the healing takes longer, the coals burning low, scarcely embers, and the dreams are the worst they’ve ever been. But Reiner’s ghost, the warm figure, is there, touching his forehead, murmuring wordless sounds to him, and he slowly rises through the darkness.

He awakens naked in a hospital bed, and checks his legs first, remembering the pain of them being blown away by Eren’s shift into a titan, and the desperate fear that he hadn’t been fast enough, that Eren had blown Falco away too. His legs are there, healed and steamed back into existence, and this time, it’s not just Galliard waiting for him. Pieck is there too, her eyes dark and haunted, and Galliard is offering Reiner a bottle of wine.

“If only this were all a bad dream…”

Reiner takes the bottle with numb fingers, the neck of it still warm from Galliard’s hand, and pours some of it down his parched throat. “Where are they? Where are the cadets?”

Galliard and Pieck both look away, and that tells Reiner all he needs to know.

~*~

A few days later, and they’re on a boat, steaming back to Paradis under the cover of darkness. Pieck is below deck—of all of them, she took Zeke’s betrayal the hardest, compiled with the deaths of her Panzer unit—and Colt is there with her, and Reiner hopes they’re finding comfort in their shared grief and fear. He has spent his entire ride on the deck, even sleeping out there, constantly waiting for Paradis to rise out of the water again.

He’s going back. He’s going back to finish what he started, one way or another.

“Hey.”

Reiner glances over his shoulder; Galliard has crept up on him, and he’s holding two steaming mugs. He offers one to Reiner, who takes it, baffled at the sudden show of kindness. Galliard has been unusually subdued the last few days, the shock of fighting the Survey Corps silencing his usual aggression and muting his anger. He’s more thoughtful now, more considerate, and he hasn’t snapped at Reiner once.

In a way, he reminds Reiner of someone else, another soldier who faced a great and horrible loss and rose above it, used it to catalyze his own growth into a man his lost mate would be proud of.

Reiner wraps his hands around his mug and looks back out at the water. Would Bertolt be proud of him? He knows Marcel would be proud of Galliard; he knows Marco would be proud of Jean. What would Bertolt think of the man Reiner has become? What would he say about the lost years, the time spent wishing for the end, wishing for release?

Reiner takes a sip of coffee, scalding the inside of his mouth; Bertolt would be proud of him now. He knows that much, at least. He’s finally going back, going back to settle things, and Bertolt would still love him, if he were still here to do so.

Galliard clears his throat beside him, and Reiner glances over at him, one brow lifted slightly.

“Uh… sorry.”

If the ship had hit even the tiniest wave in that moment, Reiner would have gone pitching into the sea. Was than an apology? Galliard _never_ apologizes, especially not to _him_.

“For what?”

“For not believing you.” Galliard gestures out at the water, towards Paradis. “About them. About everything. Just… sorry.”

Astounding. Reiner takes another sip to hide his shock. “It’s okay. No one else did, either.”

“We should have.”

Yes, they should have, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. “Let’s just focus on the mission, okay? We need to get the cadets back.”  
Galliard nods, and takes a great swallow of his own coffee. “Was… was he really saying that stuff? When he died?”

Ah. At long last, it’s come back to this, and after a moment’s hesitation, Reiner lifts a hand and puts it on Galliard’s shoulder. “He really was.”

Galliard nods again, and makes a sniffling sound that’s suspiciously close to a sob. “Okay.”

He turns then, and strides away, heading belowdeck. Reiner watches him go, baffled; what brought all that on?

“He’s the one who lays down with you, you know.”

Reiner turns his head; Pieck is on the deck, tottering badly but standing under her own power. She pays no attention to the sea, focusing only on Reiner. “What?”

“After every battle. When you’re hurt.” She makes a gesture towards the stairs Galliard disappeared down. “He lays down with you when the nightmares are the worst, and stays with you until you’re sleeping quietly again.”

“He… he does?” Reiner has spent so long thinking the dream person is a ghost that he’d never considered Galliard.

“Yes.” The faintest little smile tickles the corners of Pieck’s mouth. “Every time. He gets up when you’re still, because he knows you’re going to wake up in about thirty minutes and doesn’t want you catching him at it.”

“Every time…” Reiner looks back at the stairs, and then down at the mug in his hands. How many times has it been? How many times has he had the same dream, the same ghost lying beside him? And the whole time, it’s been Galliard, holding him, easing him through the worst of the nightmares, and never taking credit. _Hiding_ his involvement.

“Reiner.” Pieck steps up beside him, and Reiner automatically gives her his arm, which she takes, leaning her scant weight against him. “You know we’re not all going to survive this mission.”

Reiner starts; he’s thought that, yes, but hearing it stated so baldly is like a slap of cold water to the face. “I… we’re going to try.”

“Yes. We’re going to try, and we’re going to fail.” She looks up at him, and Reiner doesn’t think he’s ever seen her eyes so sad. “You know we can’t beat them. It will take a miracle.” 

Reiner starts to interrupt, but she puts a hand up to silence him. “Don’t bullshit me. You know what I’m saying is the truth. We don’t have much longer left in our period of duty, anyway. If we don’t die on Paradis, we’ll die in another year or so. We’re living on borrowed time.”

Reiner swallows, but all he can do is nod. She’s not wrong, after all.

“But Galliard isn’t. He still has nine years left. And he’s going to be lonely when we’re gone. Lonelier than he is now.”

“Galliard isn’t lonely.”

Pieck levels a flat, unimpressed look at Reiner. “Gali is the loneliest person I’ve ever met, after you.” She lets go of Reiner’s arm and gives him a little shove towards the stairs. “So go be lonely together, in the time you’ve both got left.”

Reiner takes a staggering step away, but Pieck isn’t paying attention to him anymore; she’s looking out at the water, her arms around herself, and Reiner realizes she’s been betrayed too, that she’s feeling the smart of Zeke’s defection worse than the rest of them, and wondering if she’ll be able to face him.

“Pieck…”

“Go.” She doesn’t even look up. “I’ll be fine. Colt will come looking for me soon. You go to him, while there’s still time.”

“… thank you, Pieck.” Without another word, Reiner turns and heads back into the ship, back to their shared quarters, to find Galliard and make things right with him. While there’s still time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed this Gallirei Weekend!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter ended up being all about Marcel. Don't worry, the porn is coming!


End file.
